


A Place We Can't Remember

by beedekka



Category: Desperados Under the Eaves - Warren Zevon (Song), Transverse City - Warren Zevon (Song)
Genre: Cybernetics, Cyberpunk, Dystopia, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Non-Human Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7005964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beedekka/pseuds/beedekka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warren Zevon lives in Transverse City with Pollyanna.</p><p>Doesn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place We Can't Remember

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deifire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deifire/gifts).



> Desperados Under the Eaves [(video)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0J3ossUzhU) [(lyrics)](https://play.google.com/music/preview/T332nglsiyja3bmhqcauz7tfxjq?lyrics=1)  
> Transverse City [(video)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yD0_sX1qiqY) [(lyrics)](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/warrenzevon/transversecity.html)
> 
> When I googled the Hollywood Hawaiian I saw this page with scans of a brochure for the real place, c. 1950s. Zevon lived there in the late '60s apparently, so it was pretty cool to see it. I love all the descriptions of the rooms! [(here)](http://collectibles.bidstart.com/Hollywood-Hawaiian-Hotel-Brochure-California-1950-s-/20395384/a.html)

Zevon looks at the clock and squints one eye, then the other. He can see the display sharp with his left, but the right is blurry like a 21st birthday. _Yeah, something optical is definitely on the way out._ He blinks a few times and tries again; it doesn’t resolve. “Used to be able to make out a beauty mark on a girl’s cheek all the way from three mezzanines up,” he murmurs. _And opticals are a head-driller job to fix._ He’s done above-the-neck implants twice before, but he was younger then, and tougher _(…and dumber. It wasn't worth it)._

According to his left eye it’s 2am, so he makes the effort to straighten in the chair and close the TV screen. It’s some kind of sex channel request show that he hasn’t really been watching, and it seems like no one else has either, because the women on the bed are still mostly dressed and looking bored. ‘Touch my tits to turn me on!’ one of them tells the camera, and a cardswipe interface flashes up where her chest is. The charge options range from 10 to 60 credits, and Zevon wonders exactly how much of a turn on 10 credits could really be. 10 credits is a burger at the mall, or the infrared Laundromat machine for a quarter-hour… Mind you, 20 buys a glass of water and when he drinks one of those he kinda gets a twitch in his pants.

“Touch my TV to turn it off!” he sing-songs back, even though the tech means he doesn’t have to touch anything to close it down. Then he laughs out loud because somehow that makes it funnier. It prompts a scuffle and a whir from beside his feet and he reaches over to acknowledge the newly-woken dog. “Hey there, four-legs. Wanna hit the walkways?”

She stands up and faces him blankly.

“That keen, huh?”

She’s an Annapolis model, Mark III. A series that research tells him got retired when they turned out to have a tarnish problem, and because apparently even bums have decided they don’t want to hang around with a budget dog these days. _Well, you and me just got something in common then, don’t we, girl?_

Patting her round the back of her rigid metal ear earns him a tailwag like a windshield wiper going back and forth, and he tries not to wince at the pity of it. At least his metal’s on the inside. When everyone can see all the wires and the chips and the hydraulics it makes it pretty damn hard to keep on looking cool. Having your ‘enhancements’ hidden deep in your veins, or your brainstem, or your spinal column, means no one can _quite_ tell how close they are to dating-out, or whether your implants are slowly frying your head.

He holds his hand out in front of her, watching her pinprick phosphor eyes track it. She processes for a moment and then rebalances to raise a paw and tap his palm. She’s learning. He smiles. “Good girl! Hey, maybe we’ll move on and try a new thing now. There’s this crazy shit called ‘fetch the stick’ – it’ll knock you out.”

She stares back in monochrome green, and he thinks privately that P3 phosphor would look better. _Who gets P1 when you could choose amber instead? Your real owners must have been chumps._ He’s gonna tell them that if they ever do show up. Or maybe he won’t. If they turn out to be blind, that would be a pretty good excuse, ‘cause presumably what colour eyes your dog gets isn’t very high up the list of priorities then. He’s suspected for a while now that this might be what she’s for – something about how she nudges him when he tries to pass by close to things, and gets in around his legs on the hover platform. He did attempt to explain to her how he just likes to stand near the edge, but that turned into an awkward conversation. ‘Who doesn’t enjoy taking a risk now and then? Speeding traincar! Third rail fireworks! Your death on the News At Eleven! Don’t tell me you don’t think about it. Everybody thinks about it…’

She’s still staring at him.

“Yeah yeah, I know you’re waiting.” He gets up and stretches each limb for a few seconds, easing out the stiffness from slouching around not-watching the 10 credit tit show for hours. How the hell _did_ he manage to do that?

“Did I zone out before?”

He sighs. _Did I?_

“And it's not like you can actually tell me, is it, so that’s a question for Zevon, for 1000 credits: did I, again?”

_I don’t fuckin’ know._ “C’mon, Pollyanna – let’s go.”

 

***

 

It's true that he’s been dreaming more and more lately, zoning to a space that slides in around him like smoke pouring through a vent. It’s more of the implants failing – gotta be – which is frightening to him like walking backwards on the edge of a hover platform isn’t. He always thought that when the obsolescence started to kick in it would feel like flashes, like a fluorescent tube on the way out, but it’s much smoother than that; it’s like getting distracted by a memory and not realising for a moment, or noticing one dead pixel on the screen and staring at it while the rest of the display carries on. That’s what’s frightening about it – how stealthy it is. Right now he’s catching it, he knows it’s happening, but a little bit further down the line…? One day he won’t realise and snap back to reality; one day that dead pixel is going to become his whole fucking life.

He shudders and reflexively pulls his coat around him, something that earns a wary look and a wide berth from an old woman walking on the opposite side of the corridor. The temperature is controlled to the nth degree, and it runs too hot, not cold, so to her he just isn't acting ‘right’. ‘Oh yeah, I’m one of _those_ , lady. Look out!’ The impulse to turn around and shout it after her doesn’t fade until he’s around the corner and on his way into the cafeteria.

The Automat vends 1 credit sugar sticks in multiples of five, and it’s a habit he just can’t quit. Fuck knows what’s all inside those little tubes, bulking out that ‘minimum 5% crystalline sugar’ claim, but he figures that even if it is fiberglass or floor-sweepings, the plasticky sweetness of every suck is worth losing a few points on your biomedical health score. _Gotta take your pleasures where you can._

He snags a couple of servings, and ambles around the empty seating area feeling the sides of the tables to find whichever one is running the coldest refrigeration unit. “Here,” he tells Polly, and she settles down under the Formica bench while he slides onto it and orders a drink.

Hardly anyone comes here overnight; not at the exact time he does, anyway. Shift changes send a sudden tide of commuters from the Systems Hub through at midnight and six, but he just avoids those peaks. This is the epitome of a ‘nothing’ sector that people pass in and out of on their way between other places, and although Zevon’s considered upgrading to a bachelor room somewhere with more interesting culture, on balance he’d rather have the quiet around him. And Polly certainly seems to appreciate how long it takes to get anywhere on foot, so there’s that too.

The darkness outside the windows is complete enough that all he can see is a mirror of the Automat reflected back at him, and he’s kind of glad the haze has settled right around this level tonight. It makes it more likely that the view from higher up will be clear. It’s always a disappointment to make the journey to the top just to look himself in the eye, when (on a good night, with stable atmospherics) he can take in the whole expanse spreading out west of Transverse to the Hollywood Hills crater. The vista runs for miles upon miles of gridded emptiness, all the way to the new coastline. Zevon’s lost hours scanning that view – ‘rock and no water and the sandy road’ – never making out a familiar building, nor the torches of the travellers they say are out there, yet there’s a sense of _something_ he gets from it that sets an itch inside him…

Zevon closes his eyes to drink, feeling a bead of condensation drip down his thumb and towards his wrist. Yeah, this table was a good choice. The colder the water, the more he can appreciate it entering his system, chilling his throat and soothing the dehydration that makes his head ache and his skin tight. _A cold cup of water and some 1 credit sugar sticks, and that’s as good as it gets, baby._

Swallowing the last of the meagre liquid, he slides the container away and leans his head down on his arms for a moment to let it properly soak in. The table top is cool and that’s a simple pleasure as well. This is why it’s better that no one else comes here at this time of night; it means that he can do this without people tsking about public sleeping and whispering to each other that someone should really move him and his animal along.

It means it’s quiet enough to make out the sound of the refrigerator unit hidden in the guts of the table. He can hear it layering with the slow pulse of his own circulation, and the irregular pops of static he’s setting off by bringing his cranial implants into proximity with the metal in his forearm. If he listens hard enough, he might even be able to distinguish the little clicks coming from the fist-sized processor in Polly’s core. It’s an aural mishmash of electrics, cybernetics, and the disturbing reminder that for all its constant background hum now, every bit of it is destined to fall silent sometime.

It’s the hum of desperation; a sound he’s intimately familiar with, and he lets it fill his head for a little while, like the low rumble of the air conditioners recessed discreetly into every ceiling to ensure they aren’t all slowly choking to death. Very bad for you, asphyxia; better is breath recycled over and over and over (‘Don’t forget your respirator, kids!’). He inhales extra deep and feels his lungs yearn for a cigarette… a corporeal memory he can’t quite match up with reality.

It’s frustrating. And he knows if he licks his lips now, he’ll taste his own tongue and strong black coffee.

_Why?_

“Come on, Polly.” He sits up quickly. “We gotta get out of here before I go fuckin’ nuts, sweetheart.”

Her head tilts in agreement, and he swipes the table’s waitscreen with the back of his wallet. He keeps his card nestled right up against the worn leather inside, and it’ll register for most machines like that. Sometimes he has to take it out properly; the fucking door to the express elevator is _every_ time. There’s an irony there, right? The screen at the outlet station only seems to feel it 50% of the time, but the voice is so polite when it asks him to please try swiping again that he doesn’t mind getting it out for her.

The waitscreen beeps for a gratuity, and he flips it off as he walks away. “You know you short-measured me. _You_ have a nice day, too.”

 

***

 

They get to the escalator and Polly clacks noisily against the steps, her metal paws splaying for balance like she’s learned since they started making this trip every night. He rests his hand on her shoulder. Whoever coined the phrase ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’ has never seen an Annapolis III series work out how to ride a 200ft riser. The vibration of the escalator motor moving through her makes his own joints buzz, and he’s pretty sure that his hands did used to shake like that old woman thought they were in the corridor before. He remembers gripping a coffee cup with his fingers like a vice, filling it half full so it wouldn’t end up slopping over the sides when he raised it to his lips to drink.

_Where was I?_

Closing his eyes against the glare of the sun through the window.

_Why do I remember this?_

The rustle of leaves, slowly overwhelmed by the low hum…

He jolts abruptly as Polly nudges him and steadies herself for the top of the escalator. _Shit._ “Good girl,” he mumbles, stepping awkwardly off onto the mezzanine.

“ALL GREETINGS, the faithful!”

Well, if Pollyanna hadn’t pulled him back to his senses, the Clergy member stationed at the head of the stairs would’ve managed it.

“WELCOME to the ETERNAL LIGHT of the all-night, the open doors of ten whole floors, we turn away no salvation-seeker, BELIEVE my brother!”

“Amen to you, brother-sir!” Zevon returns the greeting with equal exuberance and far less sincerity. He isn’t a believer, but the Clergy of the Mall are a harmless bunch in comparison with the other factions. The Shopping Sector is a haven for all sorts of folks who wouldn’t have anywhere bright and clean to hide at night otherwise, and it’s relatively safe – danger scares off buyers, so the surveillance coverage and security here is second to none.

The greeter holds out a flyer and he takes it without thinking. Walking away, he sees what it actually is and smiles ruefully. “He gave me the map to find the Trauma Stand. Suppose I really must be looking a little rough round the edges, huh?”

Polly doesn’t meet his eyes, but she doesn’t try to lead him there either, so he guesses she thinks he’s alright. Or else she’s just more interested in getting on with what they came here for. Sadly for the Clergy, it’s not to worship at the altar of Almighty Goods; it’s the promenade deck and the terrible beauty of its observation platform.

 

***

 

“Sit,” Zevon whispers, and Polly whirs to her haunches.

The signs on the platform command quiet, but he never feels like getting loud when he’s up here anyway. Leaning forward he rests both palms on the glass and steels himself to crane his neck and look down first. The height gets him every time, so he’s learned to force himself past the vertigo before he does anything else. Or maybe he’s kidding himself that the sheer distance down is what unnerves him about it; maybe it’s because he really has to force himself to acknowledge the tiny shanties and burnt-out squares of land that patchwork the ground way beneath the mylar-coated towers and insulated walkways of Transverse City.

After riding out the headspin, Zevon sees he was right about the haze layer; it’s clinging around the main structure a couple of hundred feet below, obscuring the view of the ground and its discomfiting encampments. The reflective particles pick up the neon of different interior lights to create a surreal cotton candy effect - almost pretty, if you didn't know how poisonous it would be. It thins out further away from the towers, and he can look beyond it and start tracing what might be the ruined interstates running back towards the old city. He’s mapped it out every which way in his head, but he can’t quite let himself be confident that the long ribbons of space scarring the land really are the highways, and not just cracks that have opened up.

The crater north of Hollywood Boulevard is the only reliable reference point he has; a piece of the hidden history that was too big for them to supress – that, and the fact that all the Central Coast counties are gone, swallowed into the sea. Zevon closes his fucked up right eye and focusses on the area where he thinks Hollywood is, and the itch somewhere deep inside him flares like gears grinding. There’s something about it. _What the fuck is it that I’m feeling when I look out there?_

Whatever it is, it’s what keeps drawing him to this platform, chasing echoes of a place that he’s sure he knows somehow.

His good eye twitches and protests at what he’s asking it to do, and he has to look away from the glass, refocussing on the speckled resin floor of the mall for a moment. “Maybe I am gonna have to spring for new optics,” he murmurs. “If I don't, you might find yourself actually doing your job for real, huh?”

Polly’s ears angle at the sound of a question, but she doesn’t turn from the window, so Zevon eases himself down to her level and sits heavily on the ground. “What are you seeing, girl? If you happen to recognise anything, how about you try and programme yourself to speak and tell me all about it? ‘Cause the best I can think of is that my implants are cooking my memory and I have, haven’t, maybe, never, used to, will do, did once, know somewhere outside of here.”

 _Will do._ His mind catches on that thought, and he casts a glance over his own body, wiry and still pretty tough where his endoskeleton augmentations are. He can shoot a gun; he can fight and live rough. It makes him wonder, how far could he reasonably expect to get before the outside got him? What would he have to lose or gain by trying?

He shakes his head. “Hey, you know how you try and stop me when I do stupid things?”

Polly does look at him then.

“Yeah, keep an eye on that lately.”

 

***

 

He wakes up to a roll of thunder, feeling the static charge of lightning crackling through the air and making the struts and girders of the tower sing around them. _That came on fast_ , is his first thought. Then he realises that the Automat is dark – the waitscreens are blank and the machines are silent. Ominously, his watch display is also showing nothing, so he’s got no real way of telling how long he’s been zoned out for.

“Okaaaay, Pollyanna, let’s find somewhere else to go – further in.” Zevon ducks down and reaches a hand under the bench. “C’mon, it’s just an electrical storm. We’re fine.”

She clearly isn’t persuaded by his coaxing, and he has to get on his knees and look for her properly. He’s down to one eye since the right optic futzed completely, but he can see her two pupils glowing green way back in the very corner of the space under the seats. “It’s okay,” he tries again.

It’s raining hard against the windows, loud enough that he can’t hear if the aircon’s out along with everything else. _Not that it matters for you, baby._ Nevertheless, for his sake he doesn’t want to waste time, just in case it’s been off for a while. He takes hold of her collar and pulls – the first time he’s ever done that – and she seems to react to the momentum and scrabbles out right into his chest. Surprised, he gives her a quick hug before he gets up. “We’re heading back to the room, sweetheart. Home.”

The fact that the emergency lights aren’t on is making him think that this tower might be dead in the water right now, so he needs to find a respirator and to think about the best way to get to an adjacent sector without using any power to do it. _It’s one way to liven up the day, I guess._

Polly’s not making the move ‘home’ that he was hoping she would though, and he’s not sure what to do about that, especially because he can feel the building quivering a little like it’s losing integrity further down the structure. “Hey, you’re gonna have to help me out here, because I don’t really have depth or distance vision in this light. Take me home, Polly.” He can feel her against his leg, pressed to his side, and he realises with a start that she’s waiting for _him_. He rests a hand on her back, then she moves.

There are no standby lights in the corridor either, no evacuation warning sounding, and he has to use the manual emergency handle to get the doors open. Zevon doesn’t like to admit it, but all of this – coupled with the fact that he hasn’t seen a single other soul running about – is beginning to seriously disturb him. The apartment section in particular should have people around it at night, even if the recreational areas are empty. What the hell is going on, and how is it happening so quickly?

Cranking the next door open produces a blast of damp and tepid air, _and fuck, that is definitely not good_.

“No, no, no, wait!” He stops Polly in her tracks, coughing after the words are out. “It’s not s-” He spits. “It’s not sealed in there anymore.” Zevon tries to think of where else he might find a respirator other than stored in residential rooms or equipment offices, and what the next fastest route to a tower link would be.

He almost feels like laughing. It wasn't long ago that he was contemplating walking out of this place voluntarily; striding out into the wasteland to find out why his memories seem to think he belongs out there, not in here. Now it looks like fate is making the choice for him, only it's also ensuring that he’s not equipped, not thinking straight, and if the lurch to the left the walkway just took is any indicator, it’s trying to dump him outside from 700ft up anyway.

There’s a roll of thunder that sounds like it’s right on top of them, and a near-instantaneous sheet of lightning that illuminates walls which are already looking dangerously warped. He crouches to keep from sliding sideways with another lurch of the tower, and Polly’s doing the same, moulding herself to him and flattening her ugly ears. “Shit, this is crazy! It's unreal…”

 _I’m a fucking idiot. It_ isn’t _real._

And in a split-second he’s awake again, sitting on his ass on the floor of the observation platform with Polly’s chin resting on his thigh.

That's something new (and not particularly welcome). He's always zoned to the weird sense-memories before, but this time the dream was here in Transverse. Does that mean the implants are degrading in a different way now? Faster? As unheimlich and cryptic as they are, Zevon would rather have the echoes of the bitter coffee and the dying palms in his head – at least he can reliably distinguish them from reality.

When he turns to look out through the coated glass, he finds the haze has drifted higher and the pastel reflection of the mall is all that’s visible now. There’s a Clergy banner hanging near the ceiling and his left eye reads it mirror-backwards: ‘THE SALE IS COMING! ARE _YOU_ READY?’

“Hey, how about the faithful are right, and we really are entering the end times?” Zevon taps Polly on the head and clambers to his feet. “Maybe I was just bestowed a vision of the future, baby.” That explanation is a marginally more appealing kind of headfuck than his actual corroded cortex, if only for the entertainment value of someone like him turning out to be Tiresias. He checks his watch, its luminous numbers present and bright, and it’s 5am. “We need to get going to beat the Sys Hub rush.”

The greeter from earlier is gone when he gets to the escalator, replaced by a young woman whose sandwich board is sliding off her narrow shoulders. He’s expecting to hear, ‘Have a nice day! Come back soon,’ as he steps on to ride down, but she just says, “I like your dog.”

 

***

 

“Zevon, that fucking dog you brought home is out here barking and pissing on the flamingos! Get up and do something about it or I’m calling Animal Control, d’you hear me? And pay your damn rent while you’re at it. Zevon? I know you’re in there. Are you listening to me?”

 

***

 

The News At Eleven is about the only thing he can find worth watching these days. It’s ridiculously sensationalist and the graphics do nothing except distract from the stories, but it’s an oasis amongst the 24hour sex and gambling channels. Sure, he skims the retail networks a little (because who doesn’t enjoy being tempted by a bargain toaster-fridge now and again?), and talks back to the ‘factual’ channels that pass off reconstructions of cheery industrial workers and excited families moving into the suspended city as being the farthest back that history goes, but the news is the one programme he sets a reminder to keep up with.

The City Directors are on there every night now, forced into public statements playing down the reports of alarming cracks in the fabric of various towers. Their soundbites are as polished as their briefcases, and Zevon would bet money that they keep respirators stashed inside those at all times. They smile and shake their heads in response to everything the reporters ask, their smug faces sickening him.

Much as he might scoff at the idea of precognition, and instinctively start listing off all the chemical reasons it’s still better to be inside a failing structure than outside surrounded by the violet air, he’s beginning to think that neither of them are such crazy prospects after all.

 

***

 

 _Fuck._ He winces at the spike of pain in his head as the banging on the door starts up again. “Yeah yeah, alright, I’m coming!” He’s not getting back to sleep with the manager out there yelling and cursing him.

Standing upright does nothing to help the headache at all, and the grit in his eyes and acid taste in his throat is an unwelcome reminder that he puked all the liquid in his body into the sink last night. _I can’t go on like this. I can’t do this night after day after night after..._

 

***

 

The screen’s showing some kind of infomercial when it comes into focus again; a wonder cleaning product that’s supposed to remove 99.9% of all known stubborn residues with one application to your skin. ‘99.9!!!’ The camera zooms in as an automaid looks the closest to surprised and delighted that current facial-expressive technology allows. Only 40 credits? Zevon thinks. _That’s enough to make a sex channel girl squirm in her panties._

“Polly?”

She scrambles to a sitting position and waits expectantly, anticipating their routine, and he finds he has to swallow hard instead of speaking right away. It’s not because he doesn’t want to go for a walk, but he’s reached a decision about _where_ , and he isn’t sure if it’s fair to ask her to go with him this time.

Her tiny green eyes don’t waver as she looks at him. Her facial expression can’t change at all. Yet he’s suddenly certain that she understands what he’s planning to do.

“You don’t have to come with me,” he manages. “I don’t know where we’ll end up, or how long it’ll take. Hell, I’m not even sure what we’re looking for, just the vague area… And if nothing’s there, I guess we’ll go on to the coastline and we’ll be travellers, like the legends.”

He glances towards the bag he’s had packed and by the doorway for the last three nights. He’s ready.

She stands up.

They both are.

 

***

 

When he opens the door to the motel room he’s almost knocked over by the dog, tail wagging and tongue hanging out in the heat. The manager glares at him.

“Pets _on a leash_ , Zevon. If she’s staying, you need to fuckin’ look after her, not get blackout drunk and forget her outside to run around!”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Hey, don’t give me notice, okay? I’m gonna get my shit together.”

“Yeah, sure, everybody is. How about you get some rent money to me, then I don’t need to put you on notice.”

The manager stalks away and Zevon watches him leave, then looks down at the dog. Apparently she’s pretty certain she’s staying, pressing up against his leg like she belongs there. _Guess I’d better think up a name for you then_. “Come in here and cool off while I make some coffee.”

When it’s ready, Zevon sits at the crappy little desk by the window, and his new companion immediately settles underneath the chair. “Someone trained you well, didn’t they?” He wonders why that same person would up and take her collar off and leave her all alone in the parking lot of a strip mall. _Someone who isn’t taking responsibility for their shit. Someone probably like me._

The coffee tastes bitter, but the caffeine soothes his headache, and he finishes it squinting against the sun coming through the trees outside. Then he stares at the cup and filters out everything except the dull sound of the air conditioner struggling to regulate the temperature in the room. It’s soothing too, in some kind of awfully sad way; something to focus on while he tries to make the decision he’s been putting off for so long.

Is he ready to take that first step?

He swallows, and looks away down Gower Avenue.

 

-end.


End file.
